


An Honourable Passtime

by thecattydddy



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Multi, but by no means accuracy, historical mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:58:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1329313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecattydddy/pseuds/thecattydddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortality is both a blessing and a curse. Death is neither.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Honourable Passtime

"Tell me, Spain," Arthur held the nation by the collar, holding him against the mast pole as he struggled to breath properly, "When you thought it'd be a good idea to come invading, did you ever consider the possibility of being utterly destroyed by the British Navy?"

"Was just... Following orders..." Antonio insisted, choking out a response as his face started to go blue. Arthur released him and he fell to his knees, taking in greedy swallows of air to fill his deprived lungs. A boot pressed into his back and he winced, but didn't make any effort to fight them off.

"Be glad I don't ship you back home engulfed in flames," Arthur bent forward, "You go and tell Philip that if he so much as fantasies about the Queen that I have a sword that'll fit perfectly in the space between his head and his shoulders."

"Right, yes, of course," Antonio nodded at the ground, "I'll... I'll tell him."

"Brilliant," Arthur approved, kicking him down onto his face before retreating from the ship, "And just for good measure... Captain. Bring aboard the snakes."

"S-snakes?" Antonio's head shot up, his hands quivering.

"What's the matter, España?" Arthur teased, pausing a moment to see a hissing crate brought aboard the ship, "Not afraid of a little reptile, are we?"

"O-of course not!" Antonio laughed, nervously. He was backed up against the mast post, clawing for his sword which lay unattended a few feet away. Arthur kicked it away, right over the edge of the ship.

"Whoops. My bad," he smirked, nodding at the man who'd brought aboard the snakes, "Tie him to the mast and then open the crate."

"No! Wait! Come on! We can talk about this," Spain insisted. He scrambled to his feet, reaching out to take Arthur by the arm. His finger tips just barely brushed the Englishman's coat as member's of Arthur's crew grabbed him, dragging backwards. Arthur didn't turn back at the Spaniard's cries. He didn't care.

* * *

Arthur was glad to be back home. 

As much as he loved to sail or to visit t he developing colonies of the New World, nothing quite brought him joy like the streets of England. Children's laughter filled the air, bringing with it the coloured dresses and suits customary of the time. He was supposed to be watching the most recent showing with his beloved Queen, but she seemed absent, and so he sat in the box, waiting for her.

"Arthur," a voice startled him from his thoughts and he glanced over his shoulder. Scrambling to his feet, he bowed before his monarch to the best of his ability in the cramped space, hitting his head on the wall in the process. 

"My Queen! I was beginning to think you weren't going to come!" he said, rubbing his battered head. She placed a hand on his shoulder, making him pause in his action. 

"Arthur," she laughed, lightly, "My dear nation. You needn't worry yourself with such formalities. I am but your humble servant, after all." 

"No, no!" Arthur shook his head, taking her hand in both of his own, "Your majesty is mistaken as it is I that is your servant." 

"Perhaps," she smiled, kindly, ushering him back towards his spot, "It is truly both of us who serve the other, hmm?" 

"Yes," Arthur agreed, enthusiastically, his eyes wide in adoration, "Please. Sit." 

"Quite a gentleman," she took her seat and he followed there after, "Your many years must have given you traits unmastered by the average suitor. And yet..." She gently cupped his face, tracing the scar that was only just visible beneath his right eye if one knew where to look, "You hardly look a day over twenty-five." 

"It is both a curse and a blessing," Arthur offered a weak smile, taking her hand in his own, again, "But it is something I have come to live with." 

"I can't imagine your suffering," she sighed, looking at him sadly, "You truly ruin other men, Arthur." 

"My Queen-" he began. 

"Please," she interrupted, "How many time must I tell you to call me Elizabeth." 

"Elizabeth," he corrected, lacing their fingers together and staring at her, "I cannot thank you enough. Ever since you were young, I have known you would do great things and you very much have. You have restored us to a glory we lost during the rule of Her Bloody Monarch - May Mary rest in peace - and created an empire from this small island nation unrivalled by any other in Europe. Even so, I have only one request to ask of you. The Tudor bloodline has ruled over England for long enough for a sense of stability to settle in the hearts of our people. It seems only fair to them to provide an heir. While I agree full-heartedly that that no-good mongrel of a Spanish monarch got what was coming to him, I still believe you need to create some kind of continuation of the bloodline - It pains me to say so as much as it does for you to hear it, I assure you, but I believe it is best." 

"You are wrong, Arthur," she shook her head, a slight upward tip of her lips. Red curls brushed around her face, framing it like the masterpiece that it was, "While producing an heir would benefit the bloodline, it would not benefit my country. I will remain married to the nation with which I grew up - Even if only in spirit. No man would rule like I and no child would expand our empire farther than I could." 

"But... What about the royal family?" England demanded, "Must I learn to love another after you? I will not, nay, cannot!" 

"You can," she insisted, "As Romeo learned to love again after his heart was broken by Rosalind, so must you." 

"But Romeo and Juliet both die by the time the play ends," Arthur frowned, his shoulders tensing. 

"We all do, in the end," The Queen returned. 

"I don't," Arthur furrowed his brow. 

"Someday, Arthur, you will," she brushed aside a hair that fell into his face, "And then, you will be reunited with all those you have lost - Everyone from your young wizard friend of old to the adulterer that I call my father - May he rest in peace." 

"Elizabeth," he covered his mouth, "You can't say that about your father!" 

"Perhaps I shouldn't," she smirked, "But I still very well can." 

"But you mustn't!" 

"Oh, don't tell me you've never wanted to." 

"He mostly kept me imprisoned at the time." 

"And for that reason, we are grateful the old man is dead," she stroked his face, smiling mischievously, "Arthur. What say you to wandering off for a bit. No one would know if we did." 

"But you love Shakespeare's plays," Arthur stated, confused, "And we may not be able to come back for the rest of the year... Also, you're the queen. It'd be a bit hard to miss you." 

"I'm sure we will work something out," she giggled, "Do help me to my feet?" 

"Your majesty... I'm not so sure about this," Arthur offered his hand to help her stand, "If we get caught, I will be in a lot of trouble..." 

"Well, then, we should avoid getting caught," she solved, taking his hand and pulling him towards the stairs, "Hurry up! No reason to dawdle!" He held tightly to her hand as she pulled him away. The glint in her eyes set him on edge and he was helpless to do anything but fret as they scurried away.

* * *

 

"What do you mean, she's sick?" the Queen heard the telltale yelling of her island nation through the chamber doors, "She can't be sick! She's the bloody queen!" 

"Mister Kirkland-" one of the ladies tried to soothe him, herding him away from the door. 

"Don't _Mister Kirkland_ me Miss! I'm damn well near a few centuries older than you I will not hear it!" he shouted, scaring the poor servant girl, "We don't live in the primitive time of the past and I expect you to come up with a cure!" 

"She is far too ill to even return from her bed, Sir," the lady whimpered, "We are doing all we can, but it is not safe for you to enter before we know what is wrong." 

"Bring him here," she caught the sleeve of the maid beside her bed. 

"Your majesty. I don't think it would be wise-" the maid began, but the Queen cut her off. 

"He's not like us... He'll be fine," she insisted, "For all our sanity, you should let him in." The maid stared at her a moment before nodding and going to retrieve the man. She poked her head out of the door and spoke with the lady outside, who relaid the message to Arthur. 

"The Queen has permitted you entry." Arthur didn't waste a second, bursting through the chamber doors and kneeling beside the bed, taking the hand she offered him. For a few moments, neither spoke. She offered him a weak smile, her hand trembling from illness. 

"Arthur," she mumbled. His grip tightened and his heart beat faster in his chest. He continued to remain silent until tears built up in his eyes and he choked out a short response. 

"Oh god... You look awful..." He managed, his voice breaking. 

"What happened to my English gentleman," she teased, squeezing back, much more delicately than this hold, "Just because I'm dying doesn't excuse you." 

"No!" Arthur refused, a few tears spilling over from his eyes and trailing down his cheek, " You're not dying! Don't say that! We'll think of something... We have to." 

"Arthur," she repeated, slipping out of his grip and caressing his cheek with her hand, wiping the tears away with her thumb, "You knew this would come to pass."

"No, no, no," Arthur closed his eyes, denying the scene in front of him, "You're going to be fine. In no time you'll be back in your throne and the entire country will be acknowledging your achievements as per usual. We can go see that new play - I know you've wanted to since the awful storm last fall. How about that? Maybe you can finally find that husband and have a nice little, happy royal family and at least me an heir or something... You can't... You can't just..." 

"Shh. Shh. Darling," she quieted him, running fingers through his hair as he sobbed into her blankets, "Arthur. Please. You must pull yourself together. What will our people think?" 

"Who bloody cares?" Arthur wailed, clenching his hands into fists, "What's the point in caring anymore? You're dead set on leaving me here alone!" 

"I'm hardly leaving you alone," she insisted, "You mustn't be so dramatic." He simply whined, reverting to a rather childish demeanour in a last hope that it could somehow make things different. Queen Elizabeth continued to comfort him until his cries became nothing more than soft whimpers. 

"My beloved nation," she said, her hand resting on the crown of his head as he buried his face, "You needn't cry or act so immature about this. It is a simple cycle of life." 

"Not for me," Arthur sniffled, "Over and over again I watch everyone I know die, yet I never age a day. I have been here since the early days of the Saxony rule and I will still be here in a hundred thousand years. I will not die." 

"Someday, all life will finally end, Arthur," she insisted, "A day when the world will be cleansed and you will come home like the rest of us." 

"I'm not so sure," Arthur shook his head, "I have tortured and pillaged, Elizabeth. I burned a saint at the stake and I have beaten my brother nations. I am not destined for anything besides the curse I live under now." 

"There is still chance for redemption," she assured, "You are never truly lost. Even if every living soul turns against you, you can be certain I will still believe in you." 

"I... I don't know if I can do this without you," Arthur managed, weakly, "No new monarch will be the same to me as you are." 

"And I hope none ever will," the Queen smiled, "So that when we meet again, in the second life, we may be together." 

"I don't understand," the lady turned to the maid. Both had stepped out of the room to give them a moment of privacy, but were still listening through the door, "What is she to him, anyways?" 

"They are star crossed lovers," the maid explained, "Forbidden from ever being together lest they break the other's heart." 

"But, why is it forbidden? He must be at least a lord, with the fact she treats him as if they were equals. If not more," The lady pointed out. 

"Oh, he's certainly more than just a lord," the maid replied, "He's the nation's personification. He has been alive from this countries birth and will be until she breaths her last. He simply goes by England to many. Every country has one, as far as I'm aware." 

"Oh," the lady muttered, "But what is it that makes them forbidden?" 

"While the Queen has a normal life span of a human, England is just short of immortal. Not only does he not age, but it is nearly impossible to kill him, as well," the maid explained, "You would have to run this country to ruins before any injury could be fatal. He could live through just about anything, but he still feels pain of course. Therefore, any attempts to end his own life would be pointless as well. This is why he does not wish to become close to anyone. No one but the Royal family, the other nations and a few who live and work as the servants of these countries know about him." 

"So... He loves her even though it'll only hurt him?" the lady turned back to the door, frowning. 

"Yes." 

"Why doesn't he just tell her that?" 

"Because they both already know," the maid replied, "And she loves him back. It is not necessary to cause either of them any more pain by saying so aloud." 

"Do you believe that there will be a life after this one?" the lady wondered, "Her majesty mentioned something about that." 

"For their sake, I certainly hope so," the maid nodded. Back in the room, Arthur had dozed off, his head resting on the bed as he sat beside it. The Queen gently petted his hair, cooing softly. For a moment, everything was still and perfect and she almost could believe that - maybe - there was hope for a cure, yet. 

* * *

It was raining.

The gloomy skies added to his depression. Dark clouds hovered overheard and he was soaked, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to care. Thunder crackled, dangerously in the distance. Wet streams ran down Arthur's face which he mentally blamed on the weather. 

"You really shouldn't be out in this sort of weather," a French voice stated. Arthur didn't need to turn to know the man. He would have his collar pulled up to block out the cold. He knew the severity of the situation, likely wearing a large black cloak similar to Arthur's coat. He would have no hat to match the Englishman, but he would still somehow have every last thread in place.

"Go away, Francis," Arthur pulled his arms tighter around his knees. The dirt flooring of the theatre caked the bottoms of his shoes and pants. Francis stood beside him, not saying a thing. 

"What about go away do you not understand?" Arthur demanded. 

"I know what it's like," Francis said, almost out of nowhere, "To lose someone you love so much - Someone who changed your life so completely. I understand what you are suffering through... Despite how much you may despise me." 

"You couldn't possibly know what it's like," Arthur scoffed. Francis smiled, distantly, and knelt beside him, trying to avoid getting mud on himself. 

"Her name was Joan," Francis insisted. 

"The heretic?" Arthur glanced up, finally meeting Francis' look. He was expecting a victory sneer or maybe a spiteful hatred, but the only emotion present in the Frenchman's eyes were understanding and kindness. 

"She was nothing more than a peasant girl," Francis continued, "If I remember correctly, her majesty, Queen Elizabeth I - May she rest in peace - did not come from the most honourable background, either." 

"You could say that," Arthur ground his teeth together. 

"It's so peculiar, isn't it?" Francis muttered, "When they come from nothing and not only steal the affections of our country, but also your own... No matter what you tell you heart in opposition." 

"Elizabeth was very fond of the theatre," Arthur muttered, after a moment, running a finger across the ground, making a thoughtless design in the dust, "It was a pastime we shared." 

"A very honourable one at that," Francis replied. He placed a hand on the Englishman's back, rubbing small circles into it. Arthur's lip quivered and he turned to bury his face into Francis' shoulder, gripping tightly to his jacket as the Frenchman held him close. He didn't complain as Arthur damped his cloak nor when he settled enough to form coherent words, again, sniffles riddled though the exchange. 

"Francis?" 

"What is it, Arthur?" 

"Please take me home." 

Francis smiled, reassuringly, hoisting himself and Arthur up, his arm tucked behind his knees and on his back to properly carry him. Arthur's eye were lidded and red from crying. He didn't have enough energy to care that Francis was treating him like a he was some fragile flower and weakly clung to the front of his shirt. In truth, Arthur was simply glad he could count on someone to care for him in his time of need. 

"It would be my pleasure, Mon Cher."


End file.
